Living On Carol Time

 

 

"I'm late, I'm late! For a very important date! No time to say 'hello, goodbye,' I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!"

                             From Alice in Wonderland 

I need to vent, so please don’t judge me - just listen. I’ve got a problem with time. And yes, I know some of you are already muttering, “Duh! Everyone your age has a problem with time - there’s not enough of it left!”

Very funny. But my issue isn’t about the sand running out of the hourglass. It’s about my wife Carol, and her complete, unwavering disregard for punctuality.

Now, I’ll admit I’m not exactly Mr. Atomic Clock myself. But at least I try. I respect the concept of time. I wear a watch and check my phone. Whenever it’s possible, I try to give myself a buffer so that I’m on time.  That’s because to me, there’s nothing worse than sprinting into an event, apologizing for stepping over people in their seats (who got there on time), and collapsing in my seat breathless, flustered, and angry at the person sitting right beside me who’s to blame for the problem.  On the rare occasion when we’ve arrived at a concert with 15 minutes to spare, I try to use positive reinforcement by saying to her,”You see how much less stress we are under when we get somewhere on time?”  I might as well be talking to my dogs about the political situation in the Middle East. 

I should know by now. To my wife, punctuality is a four letter word. She treats time like a suggestion.  A maybe. If they had a pageant for late people, she would win Miss Eventually.

Yes, she has two titanium knees which  slow her down a little. But even if her legs were made from rocket-grade alloys  powered by Elon Musk, she still wouldn’t be on time. The reason is simple: she starts late. She builds lateness into her schedule like it’s part of her identity - which it is. 

It’s gotten to the point that we now take separate cars to water aerobics class. I told her, “I’ll meet you there.” Translation: “I’d rather not enter the pool area to the sound of mocking applause while you do your grand late entrance like some kind of chlorine-drenched Broadway star.”

And they do applaud. Most of the class claps and laughs when she finally appears. A few even do an exaggerated wrist-pointing gesture, as if to remind her that wristwatches actually exist.

At church, it’s worse. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen someone arrive so late for a service that the pastor has finished the benediction and the choir is halfway into their closing song. One more minute and they’d hand her a bulletin for next week.

I’ve told her, gently yet firmly, that it’s disrespectful. She just shrugs and says, “God knows what’s in my heart.” 

I responded, “And he knows what’s not in your heart - a clock. God also knows you missed the sermon, communion, and the offertory.”

And the excuses.  If I  could set them to music, I’d have a  Greatest Hits album:

• “They always show previews before the movie starts.”
• “The plane might be delayed.”
• “Nobody will notice.”
• “At least I’m not as late as that person.”  (FYI - That’s usually the janitor cleaning up after the show). 
• “I’m on my way.  Be there in just a minute.” 
• Traffic was bad.”
• I was abducted by aliens.”
• I really don’t care.”

That last one is the one that gets me. The honesty. The apathy. It’s like she’s not only weaponized her indifference, she’s proud of it. 

Meanwhile, I try to live on what I call Lombardi Time - ten minutes early or you’re late. The great Vince Lombardi demanded it from his players, and I respect that kind of structure. I’ve tried introducing it to Carol. Her response? “Well, I just run on Carol Time - ten minutes late and proud of it.”

You know what? Maybe she’s onto something. Maybe I should just embrace the late.  From now on, when people ask me why I’m tardy, I’ll just sigh and say, “Sorry, I was on Carol Time.”

And if they know her, they’ll just nod. Because they already know.